by AJ Pearce
‘That’s rotten luck,’ said Bunty, taking off her hat and putting it on the hall table. She crossed her arms and leant against the curled end of the banister. ‘He might as well be in Hong Kong or somewhere for all you get to see him. I tell you what, why don’t you come with me to Granny’s? There’s a new litter of puppies at the farm. That can cheer anyone up. I know it’s not the same,’ she finished.
It might not have been, but it was awfully kind of her to offer. ‘It sounds lovely,’ I said. ‘Thank you, I’d love to come.’
Bunty looked pleased and I slapped my hands on my thighs to gee myself up. The situation couldn’t be helped and there was no point being a gloom-bag about it.
‘Now,’ said Bunty. ‘If it won’t land you in prison for Loose Talk, I’m dying to hear how it went today at the You Know Where.’
‘Ah,’ I said, glad to have someone to talk to about it. ‘Very well, and then not quite as straightforward.’
‘Sounds interesting,’ said Bunty, taking off her coat and gloves. ‘Are you allowed to tell me?’
‘It’s all confidential,’ I said, fully preparing to ignore that point. ‘But to say that I am in a fury is under-egging things to say the least.’
‘Oh crikey,’ said Bunty. ‘That puts my news about the elastic in its place. Come on,’ she said. ‘This sounds as if it calls for a large cup of tea.’
She looked at me again. I was scowling fiercely. While I was understanding about Charles having his leave cancelled, I could quite happily swing for Freddie and Diane.
‘Blow tea,’ said Bunty. ‘By the sound of it, I think we’re going to need some of Granny’s gin.’
*
‘In my view,’ said Bunty the next morning, ‘there are women who stick up for each other, and women who don’t. You’re either one or the other. It’s as simple as that.’
We had just arrived at Paddington station to catch the train to Bunty’s granny, Mrs Tavistock’s, and as ever, the station was busy. Women were herding children in berets and caps onto platforms, holding tightly on to the smallest and optimistically calling out to the biggest to do as they were told and not wander off. A large group of sailors with their huge kit bags smoked cigarettes and stared at the Departures board, while a trio of soldiers bantered with each other as they cut in front of us with some swagger.
Bunty and I were discussing my row at the Ministry in a kind of shorthand, leaving out any identifiable details, but still dissecting the scenario.
‘I just want to tell Guy and get it over and done with,’ I said, using Mr Collins’ first name as it was the weekend. ‘I really shouldn’t have lost my head like that.’
‘You were defending his honour,’ said Bunty, staunchly. ‘And it’s not your fault he had to rush off. Do it first thing on Monday and you’ll be fine. Anyway, Freddie Frog and her gormless friend deserved it.’
I grinned. Bunty purposely made them sound like two washouts in the lower fourth at school. Nothing more than an irritant, and certainly not to be seen as a threat.
We joined the queue at the ticket office, behind a handsome young man in uniform, who was arm in arm with an elderly lady in a long coat. In her free hand she was clutching a hankie, but when she looked up at him as he chatted about the weather with almost desperate interest, her face was a picture of determination.
‘I used to like railways stations,’ I said to Bunty, quietly, as the lad and his grandma reached the window and he asked for a single ticket. ‘Just watching people. Now I don’t really. There are too many of them saying goodbye.’
Neither of us turned to watch as they walked away. We bought our tickets and after a diversion to buy a copy of Woman Today as I wanted to read Mrs Edwards’ latest column, Bunts and I headed to the platform and a second-class carriage.
I opened the door and Bunty carefully climbed in first as we joined a young woman in a thin but smart black coat and a green hat that had been knocked slightly to one side by a large, crying baby. The lady was speaking calmly to a very cross little girl, while holding the baby on her knee. She apologised to me as I helped her move several suitcases to one side and the little girl said, ‘Hello,’ that her name was Ruby, she was four and she wanted to be sick.
‘Nonsense, Ruby,’ said her mother, cheerily. ‘We aren’t even moving and anyway, no one is ever sick on a train. Now come and sit nicely with me.’
Ruby looked peeved and hoiked herself up to sit beside me instead, glowering until the train passed through Ealing Broadway, at which point she whispered loudly that she wanted her potty. When reminded that she had Only Just Been, she shuffled herself backwards into the seat and adopted the self-righteous expression of someone thinking, On Your Head Be It.
Bunty, who was sitting opposite, gave Ruby an encouraging smile and valiantly tried to take the small person’s mind off things.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Bunty.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Ruby, pointing at Bunty’s walking stick.
‘Ruby,’ said her mum. ‘Come on now.’
‘It’s quite all right,’ said Bunty. ‘This is my stick.’
‘Why?’ said Ruby.
‘It helps me walk,’ said Bunty.
‘Are you old?’ said Ruby, looking unconvinced.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said her mother, bouncing the enormous baby on her lap. ‘Ruby, come and sit next to me.’
‘Grandad’s old,’ said Ruby, unmoved. ‘And he’s got no hair.’
‘I have a bad leg,’ said Bunty, helpfully.
Ruby’s eyes widened.
‘Does it hurt?’ she asked.
‘Sometimes,’ said Bunty.
‘Will it fall off?’ said Ruby, now agog.
Her mother looked mortified, but Bunty laughed. ‘Possibly,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to wait and see.’
‘I really am so sorry,’ said the young woman again. ‘What do we say, Ruby? Curiosity killed the cat.’
Ruby looked concerned, as if this might get in the way of seeing someone’s leg fall off, and as she began to ask another question, I offered to hold her little brother to give his mum a break.
‘That’s so kind of you,’ she said. ‘As long as you don’t mind. He’s not even eighteen months yet but he weighs a ton.’
‘Fatty,’ whispered Ruby.
I ignored her and insisted it would be a pleasure, and she happily handed him over. As we all fell into a chat, I realised his mother had not been exaggerating. The bonny young man was definitely on the cuddly side.
‘I’m sorry, we’re stopping you reading your magazine,’ she said, nodding towards the unopened copy of Woman Today that I had put on the opposite seat.
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘In fact, would you like it?’ I could always get another copy later.
The young woman, who introduced herself as Mrs Oliver, looked pleased at the offer.
‘That’s very kind,’ she said. ‘Are you sure? A sit-down and a read is such a treat. I don’t have time during the day with them both, and as soon as Ruby goes to sleep, Baby Tony usually wakes up.’ She took a deep breath. ‘We’re on our way to my mum’s now. I’m starting a new job on Monday.’
I was impressed. Mrs Oliver looked as if she had quite a lot on her plate already.
‘Good for you,’ I said. ‘Are you allowed to say what it is?’
She sat up straighter. ‘I think so. It’s at an engineering factory. My friend Betty just started there. Mum’s going to look after these two while I’m at work.’
Baby Tony gave a loud burp. I stopped bouncing him, just in case.
‘That’s rude, Mummy,’ said Ruby. Tony laughed.
‘My poor mother,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘It’s all right, Ruby, he doesn’t realise. Shall I take him from you? No? Well, please have this cloth.’ She handed me a large square of muslin. ‘Tony, don’t be sick. I hope I’m not asking too much. My mother’s quite young and Ruby loves her granny, don’t you, love?’
‘Granny,’ said Ruby, a woman of few words.
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‘I’m sure they’ll have loads of fun,’ I said to Mrs Oliver. ‘Did you work before the war?’ I didn’t want to pry but was interested to know. She only looked about my age.
‘Not for long,’ she said. ‘I got married when I was eighteen and had Ruby the year after. I know we were young, but Anthony, my husband, was in the army and he said he reckoned that what with Hitler throwing his weight around it was only a matter of time before things got nasty.’
‘Daddy,’ said Ruby.
‘Well done, Ruby,’ said Mrs Oliver, beaming at her. ‘Yes, “Daddy”. Good girl.’
Ruby said Daddy again and put her thumb in her mouth.
Mrs Oliver began to talk about her husband, and as Bunty gave Ruby one of her gloves to play with, I held Baby Tony and listened. It was something I’d learned from Mrs Mahoney. People, she said, like to know someone is listening.
Bunty asked Mrs Oliver how she and her husband had first met, and as our journey dawdled on with the train stopping at random as trains always did these days, Mrs Oliver chatted happily. They had both been sixteen and he was a cadet, and then they’d got married in 1936, which seemed a very long time ago now. A new calm descended on the carriage as Ruby stroked the fur on Bunty’s glove and Baby Tony began to nod off.
‘Young missy there was only two when Anthony went to France,’ said Mrs Oliver, dropping her voice. ‘She doesn’t really remember.’ She looked at her daughter for a moment and smiled. ‘I know she’s a pickle,’ she said. ‘My dear little pickle. Anthony’s company was caught at Dunkirk.’
She said it quietly, and then after a glance at Ruby, gave a small, swift shake of her head.
‘I had Baby Tony just after we heard. He’s been such a good boy, and everyone’s been very, very kind.’ She smiled at me and then Bunty, proudly this time. ‘They’re both the spit of their dad.’
‘Your husband must have been very handsome,’ Bunty said. ‘The children are beautiful.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Oliver, softly. She was very pretty too, with dark eyes and almost black hair, which was un-fussily but immaculately styled.
‘Goodness,’ she said, brightly. ‘I’ve rattled right on. You must think me awful. I don’t know what brought that on.’
‘Not at all, Mrs Oliver,’ I said. ‘It’s nice to have a chat.’
‘Isn’t it?’ she replied. ‘And please, call me Anne. What about you girls? Do you have beaus?’
It was always difficult for Bunty when someone asked something like this, and as she had made her other glove into a puppet and was now playing with Ruby, I briefly mentioned Charles. I didn’t say much, just how we’d met and that I worked for his brother, which I thought would be a good detour to take. I didn’t want to say that Charles had also been at Dunkirk but had been lucky enough to come back.
‘Is it difficult working with his brother?’ asked Anne.
I said not at all, and that he was jolly nice. Then Bunty joined in and mentioned Woman’s Friend.
‘Goodness!’ said Anne. ‘My mum takes Woman’s Friend every week. I bought a copy the other day and made the Celery Fingers. How exciting. It must be very glamorous.’
I told her that it really wasn’t, but I very much enjoyed it, nevertheless. ‘Your new job will be tons more important,’ I said. ‘Are you looking forward to it?’
We were somewhere near Slough and the train had come to a halt again. Anne took a tiny sandwich out of her bag, unwrapped it, and gave it to Ruby.
‘Sort of,’ said Anne. ‘I’ve done my Government training course and I got through that all right. Mum managed to keep up with the children so at least she knows what she’s letting herself in for. I’ll probably just be sitting by a machine, but I am looking forward to it.’
I said I was sure there would be far more to it than that. But as Bunty nodded in agreement, it occurred to me that I didn’t have a clue what went on in what I assumed by Anne’s saying, engineering, was a munitions factory. So much for my claim that Woman’s Friend had a spectacular plan for supporting women war workers. Other than knowing quite a lot about the Fire Service, and what friends said about their work, I wasn’t up to speed in the least. When readers wrote in, all I did was give them the name and address of the relevant Government source of information. It all sounded rather limp now.
I wondered if Mr Collins or any of the others knew.
‘Anne,’ I said, slightly on a whim, ‘once you’re settled in, do you think I could ask you a few questions about what it’s like? If you were allowed and didn’t mind, of course. Perhaps what your friend thinks, too? It might be something our Editor would be interested in.’
Anne thought I was kidding around.
‘Would we be in the magazine? Can you imagine? Although the trainers did say we have to be careful who we speak to. I don’t mean to be rude, but you could be a spy.’
‘Quite right too,’ I said. ‘We can give you and your bosses lots of proof that Woman’s Friend is above board.’
Anne told me I was mad, but that it sounded great fun if I really meant it.
‘Emmy means it,’ said Bunty, loyally. ‘She wouldn’t say it if she didn’t.’
‘It’s up to my boss, though,’ I said. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m being a Flashy Type or anything. Shall I give you my address so you can have a think about it and then write to me if you really do like the idea?’
Anne happily agreed. I thought it would be nice to keep in touch anyway, as she seemed such a good sort.
Ruby had finished her sandwich. She wanted to know if we were there yet, and wasn’t at all impressed when the answer was, Not Quite. I volunteered to take my turn in trying to entertain her, and had a spirited time attempting to answer questions that all started with, ‘Why?’
Ruby was a bright button who made me laugh and I hoped we would become friends.
Anne and Bunty chatted, and while I tried to explain to Ruby how clouds were made, I heard Bunty telling Anne about William. As was her way, she spoke briefly of her loss, before turning the conversation to far happier memories. Anne listened and then joined in, understanding Bunty more than most.
As the train trundled on, it was just as well no one joining it made the rash choice of our carriage, as we made a cheerful if noisy group until Ruby declared that Baby Tony Has Done a Smell. With very poor timing, our station came into view, and Bunty and I had to gather up our things and abandon Anne. She was quick to assure me that her mum would be at their stop to get them off the train and they would be perfectly fine.
‘Thank you for helping me with these two,’ she said as Ruby asked if she could come with Bunty and me because Baby Tony still smelled.
Bunty and I assured Anne that the pleasure really had been all ours, and then stepped down onto the platform.
‘BYE, BYE,’ shouted Ruby doing her best to wave.
We stopped and turned to wave back. Anne was sitting behind Ruby, smiling widely and making Baby Tony move his pudgy little hand as well. As the train began to pull out of the station, I thought of Mr Collins’ words the other day.
Think about the women. They’re the ones keeping everything going while the boys are away . . . Our job is still to help them, just as much as we help the war effort.
Anne Oliver was exactly that woman. Keeping going, doing everything for her little family, earning a living and now signing up for war work as well. And all the time with the knowledge that her own boy would not be coming home. We needed to be thinking of Anne and the thousands of women like her, and more than anything, listening to them as well.
Bunty had summed it up. There are women who stick up for each other, and women who don’t. It was as simple as that.
Anne had given me pause for thought. I was no longer worried about telling Mr Collins about the argument I had had with Freddie and Diane. Anne was worth a hundred of either of them.
As Bunty and I made our way to the ticket collector, I was already thinking of what Woman’s Friend could do. If we did more to a
ctually help our readers when they were signing up for war work, rather than just calling on them to do it, perhaps we really would be doing our bit.
‘Anne’s such a trooper, isn’t she?’ I said to Bunty. ‘Especially with everything she has on her plate.’
Bunty looked up from where she had been fishing in her coat pocket for her ticket.
‘Do you think the Ministry cares what women like Anne have been through?’ She said it lightly, but it was the most valid of points.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But I think they’d say that if she works, it’s up to her, because she’s volunteered. She won’t be conscripted because she has young children.’
Bunty made a hmphh noise. ‘Have you any idea how much pension war widows get?’ she asked. ‘Because unless they’re married to an officer, or born with a silver spoon in their mouth, they don’t have much choice but to go out to work.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Don’t start me,’ she said. ‘Or I’ll get stuck on my soapbox.’
I put my arm through hers. ‘I don’t mind if you do,’ I said. ‘I really hope Anne will write to us.’
‘Me too,’ said Bunty. ‘Ruby still has one of my gloves.’
I laughed. Bunty didn’t care about her glove. Anne Oliver had struck a chord with us both.
‘She’ll write,’ I said, confidently. ‘Ruby will see to that.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Woman’s Friend Goes to War
BUNTY AND I returned to London after a weekend full of cheer, and laden with provisions from the country including a slightly damp cardboard box which held most of a chocolate biscuit cake baked with two real eggs and four tablespoons of caster sugar. We knew the sugar had been saved especially, despite Mrs Tavistock’s heated denials, and having each wolfed down an enormous slice, Bunty and I agreed we would happily believe her if it meant we were able to take the rest of it home.
I was grateful to Mrs Tavistock for far more than the cake. The house in Pimlico, where Bunty and I lived, belonged to her, and since before the war the two of us had shared the small flat on the top floor. It had been great fun, but after Bunty had been hurt in the bombing we had moved down to the main house. It was easier for Bunts to manage with fewer stairs, but more than that, it was because the little flat was supposed to become her and William’s first home. After Bill died, it wasn’t the same. With Mrs Tavistock living permanently in the country, Bunty and I had moved into a couple of the bedrooms and opened up the old kitchen on the lower-ground floor. It was more than roomy, but warmer than the rest of the house, and once Roy and Fred from the fire station had helped move some comfy chairs in from unused rooms, it quickly became our new centre of activity.